Grace Cries Uncle (8 page)

“I said he
told
me he was an FBI agent.” I raised my voice to be heard over hers. “Remember the alias?”

She stopped talking, but maintained a piqued expression.

“He lied. Not a Fed. Okay?” Before she could say another word, I added, “And he's dead, by the way. Murdered.” I pointed. “Back there, in one of the neighbors' yards.”

Liza was rarely rendered speechless. If it hadn't been a murder that rendered her mute, I may have enjoyed the moment.

“The man was killed Saturday, found on Sunday. Detectives came today to tell me that he wasn't a federal agent after all. That he was originally from Los Angeles, with a police record.”

Finding her voice, Liza asked, “And because he was from California, and has a record, you associate him with me?”

“He showed up here,” I said, repeating information, hoping that this time it would sink in, “at this house. He wanted to know who lived here. It was only because I was on my way
out that I didn't answer him, or find out what he was looking for.” I pointed right and left. “He didn't visit any of my neighbors. Didn't talk to anyone else in town. He came here.” I pointed at her. “And two days later, you show up.”

Liza may not be the most reliable person on the planet, but she wasn't stupid. I could see comprehension dawn. “Coincidence,” she said, but I could tell she was rattled.

“You said you thought Eric may have hired a guy to track you down,” I reminded her.

She looked away again. “God, I hope not.”

Once Liza was settled in the spare room, I returned to the main level to clean up after dinner. As I loaded our dishwasher and rinsed the baking pan in hot, sudsy water, I reflected on my sister's behavior this evening. Like a pinball, she'd careened from one emotional bumper to the next: terrified, irate, grateful. I could barely keep up.

Crusted ratatouille had baked itself into one corner of the pan and wasn't giving up without a fight. I pulled my watermelon-slice scrubby from its dish and set to work on the corner, exorcising my frustration as I dug at the resistant chunk.

Bootsie appeared at my side, staring up at me with an expression that seemed to ask “Why?”

“I don't have an answer for you,” I said.

“Answer to what?” Liza asked.

I jumped a little bit, twisting to face her.

“Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you.”

“I'm not used to anyone else being here,” I said with a glance at the wall clock. “At least not at this time of day.”

“What time do your buddies come back?” she asked, crossing to stand next to me at the sink. She leaned back against the countertop, too close.

With my hands still submerged, I winged my elbows. “A little room, please.”

She scuttled sideways, not bothering to offer help.

“They come home after the wine shop closes. Depends on business that day. Most of the time they're home by ten.”

She made a face at the clock. “Do they know I'm here?”

“They do.” With a victorious flourish, I wedged the final hunk of ratatouille out of the dish. Rinsing the pan thoroughly, I added it to the bottom dishwasher rack.

“And?” Liza asked after protracted silence.

I turned to face her. “And what?”

“What did they say about me?”

“Why do you want to know?” I asked as I wiped up the countertop and grabbed a drying towel for the items I'd hand-washed. Liza scooted farther down the counter to allow me access. “They're my friends and they're supporting me. That's really all that matters.”

She huffed, then sat at the table. “Ever since I got here, I've had to answer all the questions you've thrown at me.”

“With varying degrees of honesty, I'd imagine.”

No response to the jab. “Now you. You have to answer questions for me.”

“Have to? Really, Liza?” I turned to face her.

“That is,” she amended quickly, “I'd like to ask you some questions. Get to know you again—maybe better.”

I wondered what her game was, and at the same time felt sad and sorry to have that be my first response. Yet, such was the nature of our relationship. I needed to remain vigilant. Otherwise I risked her hurting me, and those I loved, again.

“I'll share the highlight reel.” I held a finger up. “As you know, I work at Marshfield.” Raising another, I added, “I love my job there.” Continuing to tick off points, I counted on my hand. “Bruce, Scott, Bootsie, and I have settled into
a very comfortable life here together, and I am not currently involved in a romantic relationship. That about sums it up.”

“Pretty cut-and-dried,” she said.

I shrugged. “It's all you need to know.”

“You used to get excited about history and old antiques. Do you get to work with stuff like that now?”

“All the time.”

“I'll bet you're pretty good at it. You always were a super achiever.”

“As I said, I love my job.”

She offered a timid smile, manufactured just for me. “What's it like, working around all that wealth? Is it amazing? Do you know how much everything in the house is worth?”

My sister, always hyper-attentive where money was concerned. “Sorry.” I shook my head. “No more Marshfield talk.”

“Fine, then. What do you do for fun?”

I thought about Adam and how he and I had almost forged a bond together last year. He'd been great company and a good friend. I'd had a lot of fun when I was with him. He was a lovely, kind man. But I'd never felt for him the way he felt for me. He deserved a woman who did.

“Fun,” I repeated, feeling a wry smile crawl up the corners of my mouth. Who had time with all the excitement that went on around here? That's how I'd met Adam, in fact. Smack in the middle of a murder. Two, to be precise. And these were two of, how many now? Sadly, I was losing count.

“Hard to say, really,” I began. “I've been tied up.”
Umm . . . literally
. “More than a few tough moments.”

She folded her arms. “If you expect me to apologize for taking Eric away, I won't,” she said, putting on a pout. “I did you a favor. He turned out to be a loser. Leech with a capital
L
. As soon as all Mom's money was gone, he turned on me.” She looked away. “You think
you
had it tough.”

It took me a beat to understand what she was talking about and why she'd suddenly brought Eric's name into the conversation. When I did, I could barely keep my voice down. “You
think my ‘tough moments' refer to you skipping out with Eric?” My laugh came out hoarse and crazed. Her audacity astounded me.

When I managed to settle myself again, I regarded her with a sadness I hadn't felt for her before. “It's always about you, isn't it, Liza?”

She tilted her head. “You're different now.”

“People change.”

“Exactly.” She pulled a leg up onto the chair so that she could wrap her arms around it and rest her chin on her knee. “Which is why I want to know more about you. I want you back in my life. I'm different, too. Really.”

I didn't believe that for a minute, but was too tired of fighting to challenge her.

I decided to stop by Amethyst Cellars on the way home the following day. There was so much I wanted to talk with Scott and Bruce about—things I dared not voice with Liza in the house. Parking around the corner from their shop, I picked my way along the icy sidewalk to make my way in.

January in Emberstowne was traditionally quiet, providing downtime for shop owners. The smattering of visitor traffic in winter allowed proprietors to catch up on indoor maintenance and concentrate on plans for the coming tourist season.

This January, however, with the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors' convention in town, local businesses were enjoying a brisk bump in sales.

Thus, when I stepped out of the biting wind into the cozy warmth of Amethyst Cellars, I wasn't surprised to find it buzzing with happy patrons, sipping, sniffing, and chattering about wine.

The high-ceilinged shop, furnished with cherrywood
cabinetry and granite countertops, had become a destination spot in Emberstowne. Bruce and Scott had taken this bare storefront and turned it into a gathering space, with two bar areas set up for group tastings, a refrigerated glass case to showcase gourmet chocolates and other delectable treats, and kiosks strategically placed around the room in a way that encouraged people to mingle, while enhancing traffic flow.

Gift baskets took up a fair share of one outside wall. Their cellophane wrappings shimmered under soft spotlights. Two couples perused the display while sipping from amethyst-stemmed glasses. This shop was the picture of gentle cheer and I adored visiting. Every time I did, I marveled at how wonderfully my roommates had brought their vision to life.

One of the female employees, talking to four rapt listeners, described the flavor notes to look for in this month's featured cabernet. Two other employees led small groups, taking them through the order of wines they might choose and explaining the tasting process.

Bruce was in the middle of ringing up what appeared to be a robust sale for an elderly Asian couple. Next to him, Scott chatted them up, and when he noticed me at the door, waved me over.

“Grace, we were just talking about you,” he said.

The couple turned to face me, their eyes bright with pleasure. I guessed them to be in their early sixties. The man was close to my five-foot-eight height, the woman considerably shorter. Both had smile-line wrinkles around their eyes and ebony-black hair. His was scrub-brush short, but full. Hers was a luxurious bob, with silvery strands that sparkled when they caught the light.

“About me?” I asked.

The gentleman bowed his head slightly. “We are enraptured by Marshfield Manor and intrigued by Mr. Bennett Marshfield and his wondrous collection.”

“I was telling them that you run the estate,” Scott said.
“Mr. and Mrs. Tuen were delighted to hear of our connection to you.”

The man placed a hand on his chest. “I am Jim Tuen.” Using that same hand to gesture, he added, “And this is my beautiful wife of thirty-six years, Daisy.”

Daisy nodded, smiling. “We are very pleased to meet you.”

“I'm very happy to meet you both,” I said. “I hope Bruce and Scott haven't been telling too many stories out of school.”

Scott gave me a mischievous grin. “Only the good parts.”

“We arrived in Emberstowne this morning,” Daisy said. “Once we were settled in our hotel it was too late to begin our tour of the mansion, but my husband and I plan to spend time there over the next several days, at least until the convention begins.”

“I take it you mean the Fine Art and Antiquity Collectors' convention?”

She gave an eager nod. “It is the highlight of our year.”

While she and I talked, Jim finished his transaction with Bruce, who handed over a weighty shopping bag. Addressing me once again, Jim said, “Part of the joy in traveling to the show is experiencing new cities. We are finding your Emberstowne to be highly charming.”

“It is a beautiful town,” I said. “Even more enjoyable when the weather cooperates. You should consider returning in the fall.”

“We may have to include such a visit in our plans,” Jim said. “Bennett Marshfield speaks often about how proud he is of his home.”

“You know Bennett then?” I asked.

Daisy shook her head. “We have heard him speak at the convention many times, but have never had the opportunity to meet with him face-to-face.”

Jim added, “We are hoping to do so this year. With the convention in his hometown, I suspect Mr. Marshfield will spend a great deal of time mingling with other collectors.”

Although I knew Bennett had no plans to attend the FAAC this year, I didn't want to dash their hopes with too brusque a reply. “As I'm certain he'd be honored to meet you.”

Scott joined in as we continued with small talk, while Bruce rang up the next customer. From what I gathered, the Tuens were extraordinarily wealthy—not in the same league as Bennett, but well-off enough to have amassed what sounded like an impressive collection of antiques. They admitted to being partial to ancient Chinese art, but found they had a soft spot for abstract expressionists like Helen Frankenthaler and Willem de Kooning.

After we'd talked for a while, Jim touched his wife's arm. “We must leave these good people to their business,” he said. “We are taking too much of their time.”

“I hope you'll remember to ask for me when you visit Marshfield,” I said.

“You are very kind,” Daisy said. “But we would not wish to impose.”

“They seem very nice,” I said when they left.

“They are. Gina helped them with their tasting and they not only tipped her very well, they bought four bottles and arranged to have a case shipped home.”

“That's wonderful.”

“Excuse me.” A woman who had been paying close attention to our conversation stepped forward the moment Jim and Daisy Tuen exited the shop. Mid-forties, taller than me by a couple of inches, wearing thick cinnamon lipstick that matched her wavy, shoulder-length hair, she regarded me with interest. “I couldn't help but overhear; you work with Bennett Marshfield?”

The question had been asked with doe-eyed innocence, but because I'd spotted her attentiveness earlier, my guard immediately shot up.

“I do.”

Cat-green eyes shifted from entreating to calculating in
the space of a blink. “Oh, how wonderful,” she exclaimed, her tone rapturous. “I am absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance.”

She held a giant coat draped over one arm. I hoped the fur was faux. Wearing shiny black boots that came up to her knees and an emerald-green clingy dress that skimmed her legs mid-thigh, she was both thin enough and tall enough to be a model. She certainly carried herself with a model's bearing and confidence. Her skin was the color of hand cream, with such pale brows and lashes that I knew her hair color was natural. Or at least had been, once upon a time. She wore almost no makeup except for the lipstick. The bright stain in her otherwise colorless face made her mouth look bigger, wider, and more hostile than it probably should have.

Still beaming, she pumped my hand. “My name is Phyllis Forgue. I've known Bennett for years. Years.” Bringing her face closer to mine, she asked, “And who might you be?”

“My name is Grace Wheaton,” I said, extricating my hand from her exuberant grasp. “Very nice to meet you.”

“I understand—again from a tiny bit of eavesdropping I hope you can forgive—that you run Bennett's estate? How extraordinary. How long have you worked with that devious man?”

Devious?
“I'm sorry,” I said, “how is it you know Bennett?”

With a look that communicated pity rather than disappointment, she said, “Oh dear, it seems Bennett hasn't mentioned me to you.” A fat designer purse hung at her elbow alongside the furry coat, but she lifted that hand to cover her lips, affecting a mischievous grin. “How embarrassing to have to explain.”

Scott, who had been called across the room, veered behind Phyllis Forgue to face me, waggling his brows and rolling his eyes. Next to me, Bruce gave a throaty chuckle.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked Phyllis in an effort to derail what was shaping up to be a disagreeable conversation.

“Not now.” In answering Bruce, she raised her hand high, making a chattering motion with her fingers. “The girl over there has been helping me. I'll get back to her shortly.”

Thus dismissed, Bruce shrugged, mouthing “Sorry” as he left.

“Bennett will attend the FAAC opening ceremonies, I presume,” Phyllis said, far more loudly than was necessary. “I do so enjoy spending time with Bennett. He's a natural. So intelligent. With an eye for quality, if you know what I mean?”

“You were about to tell me how you know him,” I reminded her.

Running her long, eggplant-painted fingernails along the side of her neck, she huffed. “Well, of course we know one another from our years attending FAAC.” She shook her head as though I was a clod. “He and I always vie for the same objets d'art,” she said, adopting a French accent. “It's as though we are one brain. One person. Uncanny how it happens. We always find ourselves competing to own one particular piece. Every single time.”

“Uncanny,” I repeated.

“Yes!” She poked one of those eggplant nails against my shoulder and pushed. It hurt. More than a little. “You have that exactly right.”

I desperately wanted to tell this woman that Bennett had no intention of attending the FAAC this year if only for the pleasure of watching her react.
Be nice
, I told myself.

I thought about the item Bennett had hoped to procure. Could this Phyllis Forgue be after it, too?

“And what is it this time?” I asked.

She blinked, confused.

“What item are you and Bennett vying for this time?”

“Oh.” The question took her by surprise, though I couldn't imagine how. Recovering, she placed an index finger across her lips. “I'm not saying. It's a secret.”

“Not even a hint?” I asked. “Come on.” I pretended to look around the room for spies. “I won't tell anyone.”

Blinking those giant green eyes, she shook her head, very slowly. “
You
tell
me
what Bennett is looking for this time; I'll let you know if you're right.” She lifted her chin, grinning. “I'll bet you have a clue.”

If I did, I wouldn't be trying to pry it out of you.
I smiled, keeping it light. “I'm afraid we are at an impasse,” I said, winking. “Confidential, you understand.”

Undaunted, she shuffled closer. “I would dearly love to connect with my old friend before he's swept into the maelstrom of fake camaraderie that lies at the heart of FAAC.” She tossed her long red waves back, then ran her fingers up along her hairline. “Can you arrange that for me? I'd be most grateful. He and I have much to discuss. I'm open tomorrow. Say around two?”

“I can't answer that without clearing it with him first. Do you have a business card?”

The cinnamon lips twisted inward as she attempted to hide her disappointment. “Of course,” she said. Digging one out of her purse, she proffered it, all smiles again. “An hour. Not even,” she said, tapping her phone number. “Call me.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said again, promising nothing.

She hefted her coat and purse, pushed up another smile, then returned to the tasting bar, where she'd already identified six bottles for purchase. From the looks of things, she intended to add more.

Scott made his way back over to me, a lock of his blond hair falling forward as he leaned in to whisper, “I'd love for Emberstowne to host the FAAC every January.”

“I'll bet you would. But hey, the reason I stopped by was to ask if you and Bruce have had a chance to talk with Liza?”

“Not at all. She was closed in her room when we got home last night and apparently still asleep this morning when we left. What's going on? Why is she back?”

“I wish I knew,” I said. “She says she left Eric.”

“She did?”

“Our aunt Belinda called last night, frantic because Eric
called her, looking for Liza,” I said, keeping the update as succinct as I could. “When Aunt Belinda asked if I'd heard from Liza, I didn't tell her Liza was sitting in front of me.”

Scott affected an exaggerated gasp. “You lied?”

“I deflected,” I said. “But the fact remains that I'm uncomfortable with my sister in the house, and having to dance around the truth isn't helping my state of mind.”

Bruce accompanied another patron to the cash register and began ringing him up next to us.

“One more thing,” I said to Scott. “I've talked with Tooney and asked him to help me keep an eye on Liza.”

“Is that necessary?” Scott asked.

“I've had too many run-ins with Liza to expect anything but trouble when she shows up.”

“More to the point, will she cooperate?”